Let me say this plain, up front, without shame:
I love my cock.
But no--"love" doesn't quite cover it. I worship it. Obsessively. Reverently. Totally.
It is the center of my life, and I don't say that lightly.
My cock is my god.
It's the center of my spiritual life. My daily ritual. My practice.
In what some may call obsession, I'm changed.
In pleasure, I disappear.
In worship--I become divine.
...
Even flaccid, it announces itself--long, heavy, thick.
Eight inches at full hardness, minimum.
And when sucked, edged, pumped, praised? I can grow to 8.5. Sometimes 9.
And on my 5'6" frame, it doesn't just "show." It dominates.
From before I had words for it, I knew.
There was something alive in there.
Something vast. Something sacred.
I was born for cock devotion.
...
From as early as I can remember, I've been overly fascinated by it.
As a young adult, I became a full-blown chronic bater. Like, hours a day. Just... devoted to edging my cock.
I didn't realize it then, but I was building my religion.
...
As I got older, the rituals became more refined--edging, gooning, jelqing, pumping, breathing, milking-stroking myself in front of the mirror, these became my sacraments.
Every stroke, a prayer. Every edge, an offering. Every orgasm, a sacred overflow. Every drop of cum, holy.
I've spent hours in solo communion--sinking deep into goonspace, stroking slowly, breath syncing with pulse--until I wasn't a man anymore.
I was just cock.
Pure cock.
I became it.
...
But the real revelations began when the devoted cock-suckers enter into my ritual.
Because as good as self-worship is--and trust me, it's damn good--there is nothing like being sucked by a true believer.
The ones who don't just want my cum. The ones who want to be used. The ones who show up to serve, Him, the MegaPhallus Giganticus.
They understand:
This isn't a blowjob. It's not foreplay. It's worship.
It requires discipline.
It's a way to touch God.
The best cocksuckers move slow.
They breathe.
They wait.
They wrap their lips around the head, hold, and descend--sucking centimeter by aching centimeter--hands in prayer around my shaft and balls.
Their mind is empty. open to be filled.
Their eyes are closed or locked on the shaft.
They don't speak.
They listen--to the pulse. To the breath.
To Him.
"Worship the Penis God. Keep your mind completely on penis. Worship the Penis God. Keep your mind completely on my penis."
I whisper my chant in rhythm with their breath, low and steady, like a mantra.
Not instruction... possession.
And then, it happens.
Every time.
I hear it--a muffled giggle-gag, a soft whimper-gasp that isn't from discomfort, it's from devotion taking hold.
That moment when the cocksucker drops into it.
They stop being a person.
They become mouth.
They become worship.
And I?
I go deeper.
When the suction is perfect, when the rhythm is kept, when their only mission is to edge me into eternity--something unlocks.
I cross the threshold.
I goon so deep I start to forget my body.
